


From Good Intentions

by EmmG



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, F/M, Just depressing af, Moral Ambiguity, Post-Trespasser, The Author Regrets Everything, trigger warning for miscarriage, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-05-31 11:11:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6467914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmG/pseuds/EmmG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is dead and they're both to blame. Perhaps Solas' hold on her is too strong, but she can't pry his fingers off.</p><p>Various one-shots, some tying in with others. Some mere standalones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Never Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is still not a sentimentalist.
> 
> (She is not. She is not.)
> 
> Solas should not be a father.

It is ironic, she thinks, that good intentions do not always translate into good deeds.

Her determination clashed with his shame and in the end he was forced to listen.

("Just for once, humor me.")

He did humor her, with a tightly set jaw and cold eyes. Because the vir'abelasan was more than a mythical well of abstract knowledge and could be turned against him.

So he indulged her. Only once. Like she asked. Just another game of patience for him. He would revert to his original scheme and pry yet another lost part of Mythal out of her once he knew how. But still. It was something.

There were so many voices. Too many whispers. They spoke of another way and she clung to their promises.

Perhaps the world needed not burn like he thought. Perhaps they could still salvage what once was and keep what they already had.

She was too weak to perform the spell so he did it, more than a little condescending and certainly very bitter, with expectations infinitely lower than hers.

Whoever dubbed fire a cleansing sort must have been a romantic.

The voices were so loud, but they were from a bygone age. They did not know—could not have—the inner workings of her world and thus the calculations were wrong.

 _She_ couldn't have known it. She did not.

The horror on his face confirmed that neither did he.

The world must have been stronger before. It did not withstand the spell. The Veil fell and so did everyone else. Solas had his plan as how to preserve his People.

Humor me, she asked of him and by doing so prevented him from saving some of his own.

And now there is no Veil. But there is magic in every breath of air and every sip of water. The colors are bright and the sky vibrant. Survivors, of course, but so few.

He should have done it his way. Perhaps it would have been better. They should have found a way to kill him. But there was no time and now there are too many perhaps.

The soil is rich. It is dark. She wonders how much blood it's drank to blanket the meadow in such a generous harvest of marigolds.

And there are people, of course. People who are not Dorian or Cassandra. Few and far between. Not enough.

The ancient elves Solas didn't have the opportunity to wake will never open their eyes again for their temples are dust. Just like Skyhold. Or Denerim.

Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.

She thought there was a better way.

When she looks at Solas, she sees the cracks in his mask. He thought he was ready for the worst possible outcome. He wasn't.

There are barely any humans left. Barely any Elvhen.

She's yet to see another Dalish.

They are both architects of this destruction.

Solas does not help, but he is still Fen'Harel and cannot be forgotten. He heals the occasional injury, whenever sought out, and then flees. There are no People for him to lead; perhaps in time, but not now. They've both done enough and she, too, refuses to help.

There is nothing to restore.

She has her modest garden. The flowers are exquisite this time of year. A little halla stares at her from a distance, timid but unafraid. It will grow bold eventually, she knows, and might one day even eat from her palm. That's all they have now: a handful of eventuallys paired with a sprinkling of one-days.

When Solas was still so new to her, she used to imagine what it would be to have this with him. She didn't think it would be like that. She doesn't even know why they are still together. Codependent to the point of illness, the only people in the world who understand each other's pain.

And she hates him so, so much but at the same time not enough.

She was never a sentimentalist.

A young woman from her clan once wept bitter tears in the aftermath of her husband's death. Mauled by wolves, a graceless affair.

"I will have the little one to remember him by," had been her heartfelt words to Lavellan as her hands caressed a still flat stomach.

And she told her that no, she was a moron, what she was going to have was another mouth to feed. One person couldn't replace another, even if they shared blood.

She sits by the hearth and doesn't regret her harsh words. She feels hollow.

Perhaps this is despicable. She is. Such an attitude toward life is morbid. Contradictory even, seeing as how she sought to save so many once before.

But she doesn't want to think about it. She doesn't. She can't.

She fights with a pestering spirit of curiosity until Compassion—but it is not Cole, this one is different, she doesn't care about it—waltzes in to rescue her.

"Give me!" Curiosity wails as Compassion floats away with two colorful ribbons in its grasp.

Compassion relents. "You can have the blue one," It decides, "but she has to keep the pink."

Curiosity is satisfied. They leave her alone.

The pink ribbon lies like a dead thing in her lap until she hides it between the pages of an old book.

Solas doesn't know if elves have regained their immortality. The air feels different, he tells her, just like in the time of old, but there is no saying. She catches him staring at her—after a while, he stops averting his gaze—and knows what he's thinking. If this didn't work, he will be all alone again.

It hurts to see him like that, counting down the years until that inevitable _something_. She can't cease loving the man who used to decorate the walls of Skyhold with her exploits. He wears the same face. Perhaps it is the face and the memories she loves. At this point, it doesn't even matter.

She wonders what it would be like to die in childbirth ("She's got narrow hips that one, not good.") and doesn't find the thought quite so awful. Then she thinks of what it would mean. Leaving Solas alone with a naive mind to pollute with his deluded convictions, his delusions of past grandeur and haughty pride without her to counteract it all. She considers it and, with dread coiling around her throat, decides there can be no worse fate.

And even if she's there. Even if she is...

There shouldn't be someone like him ever again. This is all his doing. If he had not given in to his folly, she wouldn't have tried to find a better way.

A better way that was not so better after all. But it's trivial. It's his fault. Hers too, but mostly his. She has no illusions and knows what she's done, but he was the catalyst.

In retrospect, she's very much the hypocrite for telling that poor woman what she did.

Outside, Compassion and Curiosity are busy bickering.

"He told her his hair is red," Compassion says.

"Truly?" exclaims Curiosity.

 _That_ , she can't banish between the pages of a book.

She shuts the window.

She hears him when he comes in, but stays quiet. And he still wears that horrible sweater that somehow survived the end of her world while good people did not. He sits beside her and they hold hands for a little while, exchanging lazy kisses. Force of habit, but it is somewhat nice. They talk about nothing in particular. She tells him she saw a halla; he answers that he's finished working on the staff he promised her. Disjointed replies and disconnected sentences.

This is not the intimacy she imagined they might one day share.

Then, because they don't have anything better to do anyway, they end up fucking. And well, if anything, they did get quite proficient at finding the most comfortable of positions on the hard floor. They have too much time and no purpose; it is maddening.

She nearly tosses his sweater into the fire.

Only after, as he helps her with the buttons of her tunic, does he notice the assortment of herbs and flowers she's hanged over the fire to dry.

So she tells him.

And for a while he is still and silent. She doesn't expect much. She doesn't expect anything, truly. She doesn't even care.

She shouldn't, at least.

His lips fall to her shoulder and he holds her around the waist as she tries to wriggle away.

"I never thought about it," Solas says, and she's never heard _this_ voice. It wavers, trembles, it is tiny. "I did not think I could ever have this."

The damned book falls from the crooked shelf and the ribbon is set free. His gasp is soft as it wafts against her ear. This is not him, she thinks.

"It will be all right now," he whispers. "We can start anew."

He rubs her belly. His hands shake so badly. He kisses her temple.

"No," she says.

He releases her.

From the corner of the eye, she sees him get up. He paces, restless. He looks at her, eyes wild and one hand crawling to his throat, nails leaving angry marks, raking up and down. It's as if he is trying to rupture his own jugular. He picks up the little ribbon and wraps it around his wrist.

She counts the rise and fall of his chest as he stares at the weathered strip of fabric, but it never slows.

"I—I," he stammers, and this is so unlike him that something within her twists into a painful knot. "I understand," he says on a broken sob.

He nods. To himself, not to her. She doesn't need his approval. He buries his face in his hands.

The herbs and flowers should not be this pretty. She wills herself not to think of pink silk or red hair. She is still not a sentimentalist.

(She is not. She is not.)

No matter how hard she tries to steal away and burn it in the course of the following days, Solas keeps the ribbon.


	2. The Curse of Mortality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are fleeting. People are too. She is.
> 
> (Ties in to Chapter 1)

She puts the first crack there. She won't lie to herself to alleviate the guilt, the worry, the fear—whatever this blend of feelings is. But she isn't sorry either.

After that, it is a domino effect with her as the disturbing factor.

She's never seen him this quiet.

After the bleeding stops and reality rushes back, he sits with her and simply holds her hand. It was easy when she was moving as if in a blur, operating on the notion that the world didn't need someone else like Solas, especially not a child of his. It's simple now, but it isn't easy and all she wants to do is sleep.

And it would be so much easier if he hadn't turned into a husk of a man. His blame would be better, even his ire. Anything but this quiet, passive acceptance. He understands and she wishes he didn't.

For weeks, she doesn't let him as much as touch her. He looks like he might bury his face in her shoulder and cry, and that's not something she can handle—or knows how to.

The second crack causes a splinter, and after that he snaps out of his state of silent regret.

He comes home when it is late into the night, and she hears his footsteps through the light haze of sleep. He climbs into bed without concern that he might wake her. And perhaps it is the goal, because his hands slip into the space between two buttons on her nightgown and splay over her ribs.

"I watched a man die today," he says. His breath is so hot that it moistens her ear whenever he exhales. Ragged, shallow puffs of air that leave his lungs as if in a hurry.

"Many did," she says. The list of names is infinite. Dorian. Cassandra. Varric. Sera. Blackwall. Too many faces now belonging to memories alone. Her fault. His fault. Theirs.

Solas makes a choked sound. She feels the hint of teeth behind his lips, so hard they rest pressed against her neck.

"Of old age," he clarifies, and it seems to take everything out of him.

"Oh," she says. She doesn't squeeze his hand because this is not really a surprise. So many things went wrong; one more is no great revelation.

But it means more to him than it does to her.

He failures stretch far and wide, but it is this one that cuts the deepest. The immortality of the elves hasn't returned. He will blink and she will be gone.

He doesn't have his world of old. He doesn't  have his People. He doesn't have his child and soon he won't have even her.

There is some poetic justice to that, she thinks.

Then she doesn't think much at all, because he pushes the shoulder of her nightgown down and kisses her there. He rolls her onto her back, his hands too eager and shaky in their exploration. And when he does take her, it's unexpected and too soon and she isn't quite ready. She wriggles a little beneath him, adjusting, but the sigh he releases against her throat is so loud that all she can do is wrap an arm around him.

She traces the little scars that can be felt but not seen, etched into his skin long before she was born.

He seems to calm after that. Not enough to sleep, but enough to settle down. Somewhat.  He wakes her again not much later, without words but with hurried lips. And then once more when so little time remains before morning.

He reaches down, parts her thighs with a gentle pat, and this time he slides in sweetly. She is still wet with him and he sets a gentle pace.

"Solas," she whispers, touching his face absentmindedly. "Solas. I am tired, vhenan."

He lets her sleep after that, but come morning he is no less troubled.

 

His gaze shifts inward.

He is thinking, and she can't peel back the layers of his thoughts.

His nails have left indentation in the simple wooden table.

"What are you doing?" she asks. She grips his shoulder.

"I am not doing anything," he says.

"You're lying," she says.

"I am thinking," he counters. "It is nothing."

She wishes for his quiet melancholy back.

 

The day she sees Abelas is when she knows that something awful is in motion. He comes to their little house and just stands outside, waiting, and at first she think he must want a favor from Solas before the latter emerges without a word.

She catches him by the sleeve and he can't pry her fingers off. The threads of his sweater comes undone where her nails catch on frayed ends. She can't hold on hard enough, can't make him stay.

"Let me go, vhenan," he says. "I will return soon."

"I don't care when you'll be back," she snaps. She screams at him. She can't take any more of this scheming, this plotting. His grand ideas need to wither before the world suffers a second blow. "You've done enough."

He leaves and only comes back when she is already sleeping.

The second time Abelas is there, he brings Solas' armor. She thought he discarded it, that it got lost along the way and would never resurface like some horrible memory. But it is here and he slips back into it with too much ease.

The vault within her head where the dark things are stored is too full already. She can't repress this sight.

They are gone for three days.

Five after that.

She stops counting.

 

She wakes to a kiss on her cheek. Dry, cracked lips trace some invisible line up to her temple before finding her mouth.

She wonders when was the last time he had some water.

"I have missed you," he whispers. "I have missed you." Again and again and again.

He pulls her into a sitting position, hands working at getting her shirt up and over. Breath stuttering, eyes wild, cheeks reddened.

He frowns a little when she catches his wrist, guides him away from her.

"What were you doing?" she asks.

"It does not matter," he says. He tries embracing her again.

"It matters very much," she says.

"I will tell you," he says.

"In time," he adds.

He touches her cheek, tries to smile but it is no more than an ugly facsimile of the true sentiment. The hot flash of anger knots her stomach, but he's been away for so long and she is lonely, so lonely that she is willing to forget. If only for a moment.

But she doesn't forget, and he tells her no more than before.

 

The final crack fractures him.

When he returns the final time, even Abelas is wary of him. He trails a careful distance behind Solas. He looks unsure. Regretful. He catches her gaze and holds until they're both forced to blink.

Her eyes water from the effort.

He all but flees when she takes Solas off his hands.

There is something different about him, but she can't quite pinpoint it. Something just beneath the surface, swirling and shifting, burrowed so deep into his skin that there is no telling where it ends and he begins.

He doesn't look at her. He stares. And she is scared.

"How did the vir'abelasan feel?" he asks.

"Like too many voices inside my head," she says. "Talking over one another until I couldn't hear myself. They're quiet now."

He nods once. He's not really listening and when she drifts by he catches her wrist, fingers curling, skin going bloodless where they dig in. She feels it then; he is a vessel much too small for whatever he's trying to contain.

"I found June," he says and finally, finally some truth—but she doesn't want to hear any of it. Three words are enough to shake her world. "I found Andruil," he continues. "I found Sylaise."

"Not them," she says, because they aren't in the flesh at his side, ready to wage war on one another. They are within him—not wholly, not entirely, just the parts that made them powerful and feared.

"Not them," he echoes. "Please stay," he says, rising. He dares to reach out to her, graze her shoulder. "I will fix this. It will be all right."

She can't do this. Not another mistake. Not another bloody mistake that will result in failure. She can't be part of another grandiose misstep, lest she splinters like he did.

He brushes her hair out of her face with trembling hands.

He catches her when she bolts.

"Breathe," he says, "breathe. It will be all right. I can make it better. Please stay."

She feels faint and her knees are cotton. He tells her as much, giving voice to her wild, frantic thoughts. It sounds even worse coming from him.

This isn't right. He shouldn't be the one shaking like a leaf. A random little thought that flees as soon as she inhales.

The door shuts close when she reaches it, the handle first assaulted by frost and then swallowed by ice.

The gesture is so small, but it means more than he probably understands. A testament to what he's turned himself into.

"Please stay," Solas repeats. Always the same plea. Always. "I did this for you."

Perhaps he even believes it.

All of this may have been _about_ her, but never _for_ her.

She stares at the frozen lock while he talks and none of his words matter.


	3. No Longer Nothing (to Fix or Do or Be)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone can fracture.
> 
> (Aka Solas fucks up the world and himself so very, very badly and Ellana doesn't have any good ways out left.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a standalone. 
> 
> Not tying in to anything. 
> 
> Kinda long. I didn't know if I wanted to post it apart or not, but whatever. It fits well into this blend of universes.

A shuffling sound. The dragging of feet. A sigh soft enough not to be intimidating, but not as subtle as to be confused with a gust of wind.

He can be quiet, but chooses not to be.

He is here and he looks terrible. All pale skin and cloudy eyes and weathered garb. It would have been almost better to see him in armor for that sight has a certain familiarity about it.

And she is almost too scared to approach him.

He drums his fingers along his thigh, knuckles pressing tightly against thin skin whenever flexed.

He would have had to bypass all the guards posted at every corner and intersection. Or scale the wall. Both improbable, impossible feats.

"Solas?" she tries, because the need to say his name, to hear it confirmed, would make him real. She's not quite sure she knows this silent apparition, even though he wears the face of one once dear.

"Good evening," he says.

The sky is still very blue, very normal, or at least was so this morning. Perhaps it will remain such for the days to come. And then some more after that.  Solas is here and he is quiet and equally odd, but that must mean something.

She lowers herself next to him, feeling very much the stranger on her own bed. His head snaps. It turns, neck tensing, a lone vein throbbing. His eyes are lonely and sad, but also distant.

He's not really looking at her.

Her hand drops midair. She dares not touch him.

 "Have you been well?" he asks.

"Well?" she echoes. A quaint little sentiment that means nothing. How could she after he announced they were all on borrowed time.

One does not live _well_ after being hit with such knowledge.

His brow furrows. He frowns and shakes his head, looking quite the dreary hahren before losing that expression as well.

"I told you to live well while time remained," he says. "And now there is none left. The hour is at its end. I am so sorry."

Dorian is downstairs and so is Vivienne. Leliana is in the rookery. Birds will reach the very outskirts of Ferelden within a week. Dorian can alert Tevinter through his crystal. They can send riders to Orlais. The rebuilt Circle of Magi will not deny them, of course.

Perhaps—

"Stop," Solas says. He repeats it a few more times until she's willing to listen. "You think too loudly. It overwhelms me." He puts his hands to his temples, hovering, not quite drowning whatever dreadful ruckus is making him wince but keeping it at bay.

It's so quiet.

Just his slow breathing. Just hers.

Nothing else.

There is a shiver  in her spine. It does not rake across her back, does not travel, but remains trapped in that one spot until she feels like she's about to quake.

"You came to warn us," she says and it comes out too harshly. It needs to be true, not a question dangling from the tip of her tongue. As if raising her voice bears the potential to will it into existence. As if.

"I came to warn you," he corrects. "Spare you." A tiny whisper, a quiver of air

 He leans in far too close and she thinks he might press his lips to her forehead, but it is his fingers that find his way there. Only two. Cool, calloused pads graze her skin.

"And now you must sleep," he says.

A flash of pain without all the hurt—a detached sort of sensation. Burning, hot blood once poured into her eyes after a scimitar slashed her through an eyebrow. It is somewhat similar, and the more she blinks, the more it drips.

Drip, drip, drip. A steady downpour that steals piece after piece of her vision.

Until the world is a blank canvass.

It doesn't feel like sleeping.

 

She dreams of golden locks and keys that do not fit.

But when she wakes there are no locks, and certainly no keys to be had. She sits and waits for the hot blur of pain-that-isn't-pain to mellow to a distant throbbing.

The window is the most unnatural thing she's ever seen. A painting of magic resides behind a casing of glass. There is no surface for the colors to settle upon; they shift around each other, not quite mixing, coexisting in captivity. She blinks, and an orange sun peers back at her. Swallows, and they settle, despondent, into a sad pattern of muted greys.

Her stomach does a dance, a flip, and she's forced to gulp down air to keep nervous nausea at bay.

She doesn't want to try her voice. Not yet. Not just yet.

The door leads into a hallway and every inch of the walls are covered in shelves stocked with books. She pulls one out at random. The leathery spine is without inscription, the cover lacking a title. She reaches for the next.

And the next.

And the one after that.

Empty yellowed pages tell no story.

Somehow that is more unsettling than the intricate imitation of an outside view.

Then, she does call out.

"Solas," she says, and it comes out as barely a sound at first. An ugly, hoarse croaking that gets stuck somewhere halfway up her throat before she forces it out with a cough.

A timid echo bounces within the confines of the corridor, but maybe it's just her thoughts, too loud for her own mind.

The next room is also the final one. A drawing room with an inviting, crackling hearth. The little details are on point. There is a fireplace poker to tend to the coals, casually propped against the brick foundation of the wall; a small flowerpot upon a wooden table that gleams a bright red in the candlelight, suggesting mahogany.

A normalcy so overwhelming that it exists just in direct line of sight.

If she stays still, if she concentrates and looks without looking, the scenery in her peripheral vision dulls.

She tries not to think too much about it.

The only way out is a deactivated eluvian, erected between a door frame as some kind of mockery of a gateway.

She stares at it for too long.

Then touches it.

It doesn't come to life straight away, but when it does she is filled with hope. Childish, sudden, irrational hope. But it is bright for but an instant, and strong arms catch her shoulders before she can run through.

One of Solas' steps translates as two of hers. Before long, he's got her away from the inactive glass. He holds her, smiling gently, still too pale—and so wrong.

It's as if he's put on a mask that then etched itself into his features. Porcelain burrowing into skin, cracking and splintering until the two united to mend the damage. And the resulting face is his, but not quite his.

She should scream, but doesn't.

She should hit him, but can't.

"Hush," he says, hands gliding up her throat and jaw line before resting on either side of her head. "Too loud still, ma sa'lath."

He makes her sit. There is no second chair and so he kneels, his armor whining when bent, the ornate kneecaps thudding against the wooden floor.

"I could not do it while you were asleep," he says. "Ir abelas, but I have no choice now."

It does become very loud then. Inside her head, the vir'abelasan rebels. It fights against the intrusion until it can no longer put up a defense. Thread by thread, sliver by sliver, it flees, flowing out of her with every breath.

And it's somewhat like a phantom sensation of loss. She feels so small, suddenly robbed of something that was hers for an ephemeral moment, but that managed to fill her to the brim.

She claws at his wrist, the one pining her by the shoulder, but the last of the Well has left her. Forcefully dragged out.

And she is so empty.

The edges of her consciousness fray. A hand sneaks into her hair for purchase; it cradles her head and keeps her from going boneless.

This time there are no voices in the darkness, and never will be again.

 

The next time she wakes, she isn't alone.

A pretty, little shadow of differing hues of blue sits perched at the edge of her bed. It floats toward her the instant her eyes flutter open. It puts itself right into her face and refuses to move.

Still groggy and with the haze of sleep hanging heavy over her, she nearly plummets right out of the bed when trying to roll away from the scrutiny of the spirit's gaze.

It retreats somewhat, a mere few inches, but it's enough for her lungs to decompress.

"What are you?" she asks.

The spirit looks itself over and proceeds to shift into a vaguely humanoid form.

"That doesn't answer my question," she says, pulling the covers up to her chin. Meager protection.

"You're very serious," the spirit says, sounding chastising. "You could use a respite. I am Joy."

And, well, isn't this a new low. Being reprimanded by a spirit of Joy, of all things.

"Would it be better if I looked like this?" Joy inquires.

It does not wait for her answer. It rises on its legs of blue smoke  and adjusts its height, adding a few inches to its form. Then the blue turns to a tan shade, and after that there are lots of browns and blacks—a lot of belts and buckles and a staff with a skull atop strapped to its back.

A mirror image of Dorian grins back at her. It is a perfect imitation. One hand balled into a fist and used to support his chin—a favored gesture—and the heady aroma of Tevinter oils. The smallest of details have been seen to.

She feels sick to the stomach.

"No," she gasps. "No. Don't do this. Stop, stop."

 "Oh," Joy gasps, sorrowful, "perhaps then—"

" _No_."

When she opens her eyes again, after enduring a shaking befitting a dog left in the rain, the blue faceless, formless, unassuming spirit is the one to greet her.

There is a book on the nightstand, and she thinks Solas must have left it for her. But it is empty like all the others. Useless.

She feels herself splinter and flings it across the room.

"How can it not be to your liking?" It asks.

"How can it be?" she counters, voice too shrill. "There is nothing."

"Not exactly true," Joy argues. It floats away to retrieve the mistreated tome. "It can be whatever you wish it to be."

The tome is placed gently into her lap, but she does not reach for it.

She has half a mind to chuck it hard and far away once more, but she is also not in the mood to play fetch with a spirit.

There is only one place that she knows of that can be shaped to fit one's fantasy. The feeling of dread that overcomes her is so poignant that for a moment she can do nothing but breathe, head between her legs after she's swung them off the bed.

"Is this the Fade?" she asks. "A pocket of it?"

"Silly girl," Joy answers on a single, long chuckle. A reply rolled into laughter. "The Fade is everywhere."

It settles at her side, a pestering presence. Says, "It is free now, and so are we. That nasty barrier is gone."

The Veil, It means the Veil is gone.

Then she really is sick.

 

When Solas does come, days have passed and he drags his feet.

She approaches the eluvian from the left and he sidesteps to block her flight. She goes right and he extends one long arm to catch her around the middle.

She's not surprised, but self-hatred would have festered and rotted had she not tried.

"The Well was mine. It's all I had," she says. "Did you really need it?"

Was it necessary?

Was the Anchor not enough?

Were the Inquisition's resources not enough?

Was she too small a prize? She would have forgiven him.

The spirit of Joy pokes its head from around a corner and promptly leaves. Curiosity will never ruin it. It knows when to retreat.

The lone chair is still there, but this time he is the one to claim it. He sits, quiet and composed, while she paces, restless and frustrated.

"No," he says at last. Such a small morsel of truth. "It is useless. Facts upon discoveries upon confessions—certainties and secrets I've known centuries before they were given up. To me, it is a nuisance of loud, persistent voices. But you could have used it."

"The Veil is down," she says spitefully. "What more could I have done?"

"You were always quite good at making yourself a thorn in my side," he says, and when he smiles she briefly entertains the thought to slap this new air of satisfaction off his face. It's not condescending, not smug. Something in between the two laced with a dangerous dose of tenderness.

He finds it endearing that she's still trying to oppose him.

This must be the feeling one experiences when dropping twigs in the way of hardworking ants; an easy enough makeshift obstacle to lift and discard, but a mountain to those smaller.

He catches her elbow when she twirls on her heels in anger. Says, "A very beloved thorn, resourceful and clever."

"What do you want from me?" she asks.

"The vir'abelasan," he answers, sincere. "Beyond that, nothing you possess is of value to me. Or represents a threat," he adds.

"Then you will activate the eluvian if I ask and let me walk away?" she says.

"In time," he says. "When I am finished. The world is very dangerous right now."

"I am not made out of sugar," she says. "I will not crumble."

He suppresses a laugh at that, perhaps out of desire not to offend her but the sound is there, stifled as it is. He is still holding her, fingers coiled tight, a tether between the two of them.

"Are you very lonely?" he asks.

"What is this place?" she says. A question for a question. She doesn't want his pity, but he seems keen on giving it.

Solas cranes his neck, giving a tired nod toward the corridor down which Joy disappeared.

"Your little friend sifted through your thoughts while you were indisposed," he says. "There were happy memories associated with a place such as this one. I thought it best you don't wake to unfamiliar walls."

But it is unfamiliar. All of this.

This place never existed beyond a few daydreams, silly doodles hastily scribbled into the margins of a missive to this or that noble and shamefully erased. There would be no aravels once the Inquisition was done and over with, she remembers thinking, no aravels and no Keeper Deshanna for she wouldn't truly be welcomed back.

One must always have a notion of home to sustain them, and so she made up one of her own. At some point she thought Solas might fit into the picture. Of course that hope quickly got crushed.

Foolish, silly fantasies.

"How dangerous?" she asks, eyes traveling to the eluvian.

His fingers drum an absentminded staccato against the table, nails sinking slightly into the mahogany. "The Fade devoured the minds of dwarves," he says, voice too quiet. "Had they lived, they would be able to dream now."

Perhaps there is regret in his tone.

Perhaps even a twinge of shame.

It hardly matters because she can't stand.

He does not follow when she leaves.

 

There are bottles of liquor. Several. She picks out an Antivan Brandy and some finer Tevinter vintage.

She thought Joy would disapprove as this is not a true way to happiness—cheating on every level, utterly and completely and to last oh so briefly—but It does not complain.

"Do Dorian," she says, and Joy complies.

The Tevinter rests a hand over his heart and feigns shock.

"Do Sera," she says, and this time her cheeks are very much flushed.

The archer has her arms crossed and her eye roll is glorious as she blows a raspberry.

The next request doesn't have much coherent thought behind it, but she grants it freedom nevertheless. "Do Solas," she says, lips quivering,  forever conflicted between a smile and a frown.

But Joy only shifts back to its form of bright colors and intangible air.

"Which one?" the spirit asks.

"What do you mean?" she says.

"Which one?" Joy repeats.

Now she is a little annoyed, because this request is far from belonging to the realm of impossibilities. And it's the first time she's felt anything but nagging worry in so very long—why must it be cut short?

"I don't think you understand me," she says.

"I don't think you understand my question," Joy counters.

Her head spins and she doesn't ask about Solas again.

 

Solas visits.

Sometimes.

And they talk. Or they don't.

He doesn't always give her the truth, but even his lies mean something. She feels like she's getting reacquainted with him after too many years. A century. Eons. But only a heartbeat has passed.

"What of the others?" she asks him.

There is blood on his sleeve today, but last time he carried the smell of rain.

"I do not know," he admits.

"You don't care," she corrects—because what's the point of neutrality now?

"I tore the sky open. I miscalculated. I cannot think of them just now," he says.

But he thinks of her.

There's something about that, but it doesn't taste like benevolence.

 

"It's a very small cage," she says.

He kisses her cheek. "I can make it larger."

"So you admit that it is one?"

"These are very sturdy walls, vhenan."

 

The fleeting touch of fingertips becomes more bold. The kiss upon her cheek drifts lower. He doesn't ask if he can take her, but there never was a world in which she could refuse him.

The first time it must be morning and he wakes her with a hand in her hair and his mouth pressed to the corner of her own. She can't tell the time; the window is a colorful lie.

And she can't really think when he takes off her clothes. Shirt, pants, smallclothes—a little bundle at the foot of the bed after he shifts to cover her with his body.

Her heart beats a little too fast— _his palm above it meant to soothe_ —and perhaps she should not allow the man who brought about so much ruin to settle between her thighs— _his mouth over hers to steal the doubt straight from her lungs, her core, wherever it happens to dwell._

She feels very small next to him.

He finds her tampering with the eluvian days later, trying to get its magic to respond to her. A whisper is all she needs; only a hint of what the key might be. So many attempts and all futile. At some point luck must shift; fortune must pick a new victor. She will keep trying until the wind blows her way.

He smiles. He does not laugh. He drags her back to bed with arms locked around her waist and gentle quips murmured into her ear—clever, resourceful girl. Always, always. Little praises that mean nothing. Not clever enough. Not at all resourceful.

But this time she is astride him and he guides the roll of her hips while painting her throat with sighs. He looks down where she is gripping him so tightly; fingers dig into her stuttering, shivering thighs; a smile revives her own as he lazily slants his mouth over hers and just as lazily kneads the flesh of her breasts.

"You think very loudly," he murmurs, "but I do not mind. Not now. Not at all. I keep my guard down with you. It is—ah—so pleasant."

"Are you reading my mind?" she asks, unable to hear much else beside the rush of blood in her ears. Perhaps he misspoke.

Perhaps.

It's been her bread and butter as of late—a handful of perhaps and generous servings of as if's.

"No, no, I am not," he croons. "But I can feel it. I can feel you. Please think of me some more."

She thinks of him too much and at times it unbalances him. He does not stagger—not physically—but his mind does a somersault and he is left staring.

Sometimes his hand crawls to his throat and he almost chokes on a shakily spoken, "You do not understand."

"I can't understand what I can't see," she says.

He frowns. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Turns away from her. His shoulders are shaking. He tries to still his hand by placing it on the mantle above the hearth.

Revulsion lives within her, but she's never quite managed to set it loose on him. However it ravages all that he has done. It takes root and after that she can't stop. She thinks of the despicable actions of a haughty coward who would not admit that it was all right not to belong, to be out of time. She thinks of that grove in Crestwood and how pathetic she felt afterwards.

She rolls them all into one and shoves the bitter potion down his throat.

He can't block her out.

But then she is afraid.

He does not react. Doesn't lash out. He stands very still and she can't bring herself to approach him as magic, unbidden and wild, bleeds out of him. The palm of his right hand is entirely covered in frost; his lips take on a shade a blue; he shivers and trembles but ultimately it is fire that surges forth from his fingertips.

He has the presence of mind to put out the small, yet enthusiastic, flame before it devours the sleeve of his robes.

He looks at her and it almost feels as though he finally sees her. All the times before were consideration, admiration, amusement. She broke through, but it doesn't feel like victory.

Solas takes her hand—tries to. His own hovers inches from hers, heating the air around. It doesn't hurt, not yet, but it could.

"Please," he says. Then again, "Please don't make me shut you out like the others. It is protection, of course, but I feel so little. Don't make me lose control or I will be forced to, and then you will not know me."

She nods, once, and when he lowers himself into that stupid, rickety chair, she follows and drops into his lap.

His hands roam her back, still too hot. "So many memories," he whispers, "and not all of them mine."

"Solas?" she says.

She doesn't know why she expects an answer. He always tiptoed around the truth with his infamous omissions. Silence is just the most commonly used.

 

He comes less often and when she quizzes him as to the state of the world, his gaze grows distant.

The eluvian remains a quiet, loyal beast resisting her assaults at every turn.

 

This face is one she thought never to see again.

She notices the vallaslin before she grants familiarity to the features wearing it. Abelas grips her hand before she has the time to open her mouth.

"Come with me," he says.

And miraculously—wonderfully—fantastically the eluvian responds to him.

She doesn't think of the soft cotton trousers or the thin shirt she wears, unfit for combat and whatever waits outside. Doesn't spare a thought to her staff, forgotten within the walls of Skyhold, and how she has no replacement for it.

She follows Abelas but just as he is about to pull her through, Joy emerges from whatever hole It's been inhabiting as of late.

"This makes you happy," the spirit says.

"Yes," she answers, cautious.

"But it would make him happier to know you aren't lost," Joy decides.

It has made its choice. Joy vanishes just as a scream rips out of Abelas' throat. He is too late. The static cage he casts captures no more than thin air.

"Cursed thing," he swears and yanks on her wrist hard enough to make her stumble into the swirling chaos of the seeing glass.

 

Abelas keeps to the Crossroads, but it's enough. She feels what's happened and she doesn't want to see the whole extent of it.

Something sings in the air—wails—as ancient as it is corrupted.  Something that is far from elvhen and does not feel human or dwarven. Too old, too dark, too invasive.

"He will fracture if he takes any more," Abelas says, "but he will not admit to it."

He takes her to a cave that must have once housed a temple. Patterns of trees remain engraved into the stone. Through them, swift and true arrows find their way into the flanks of fleeing hallas.

"We don't have much time," Abelas says. He summons a wisp to light the way.

"You're going against him. Doesn't that make you a traitor?" she asks. Will he face punishment, is the real question.

"I serve Mythal. Her memory and legacy—she would not have wanted this. He was but her failed guardian and never held my chains."

Deeper and deeper he pulls her into the temple. Until the wisp flickers and dies. The next fares no better. Neither does magic of a different kind. It feels heavy in her veins whenever she tries to cast, rebelling.

But then they're not walking anymore and Abelas seizes her by the shoulders. She's very much a marionette in his hands, curious and apprehensive, as he holds her firmly in place before a crumbled altar.

"Andruil's orb," Abelas whispers. "Don't let him have this one. Anything but this one."

"I can't," she rasps and tries to fight his hold, but it is iron and steel. He is unmovable.

The orb thrives in the darkness. It drinks the corruption that's swept over the world. Gulps it down greedily. The chaos makes it tremble with excitement—it feels alive.

"You wanted to stop him, to make a change. Here is your chance. He will listen once you are no longer nothing."

_No longer nothing._

She was always much more than that. But her fingers flex and she remembers all those days, drained after the removal of the Anchor and never fully recovered, as she sat cross-legged and failed to incite as much as a flicker of light within the depths of the eluvian.

She begins reaching for the orb, but hesitates.


	4. Conflicted Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's not sure they deserve this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an alternate take of Chapter 1 & 2\. Kind of like a mix.

Tomorrow, she tells herself.

It's always tomorrow.

Tomorrow she'll brew the tea. Tomorrow she'll drink it. Tomorrow this charade will meet its end.

But one day turns into three, and _tomorrow_ becomes _eventually_.

And she knows the danger that particular word bears, but refuses to acknowledge it. Because surely her resolve is stronger than fleeting sentimentality.

She is so grateful for Solas' silence, whatever little he can spare. He is respectful, he speaks little—but he is still too _loud_. It's the little things that scream. The way he looks at her with poorly concealed hope; how quick he is to offer support for mundane matter as if she's made of glass; how he keeps the words at bay because he knows too well how eagerly her contrary nature manifests in anger.

She is still so very angry. At him and the role he pretended to play and all that which he took without right. She thinks the feeling will never go away, but it's yet to fester. A contradiction of a different sort.

She hasn't decided anything yet, but still thinks of pink ribbons and red hair.

She thinks of this child, this little da'len, that is no more than a sliver of thought at this point. Nothing more than the occasional dry heaves that wake her time and again. Nothing more.

She stands by her conviction that the world doesn't need a second person like him, but there's this irrational, raging desire within her to be selfish. Each day it claws its way a little closer to the surface until it is right beneath her skin and _eventually_ fades to a warm _what if_.

And Solas understands. They don't speak of it, but he reads between the lines and smiles.

He doesn't go out on his odd quest in the company of Abelas so often anymore.

"The little halla came back," she tells him one evening as he is braiding her hair.

"Oh," he says before brushing his lips against the crown of her head. "You should not feed it. Allow it to learn to fend for itself."

"I'm keeping the halla," she decides. "I've named him Pretty."

"Like your father's favored pet."

"Yes," she says, climbing into bed.

Solas hesitates. He sits on the edge for a long moment, fingers just worrying the covers before he chances a glance at her.

His voice is so small then, a hint of shyness having crept into his tone. "Have you thought of one for—" he begins.

"No," she cuts him off, turning on her side to stare at the wall.

She will not speak of it.

Because even if the _eventually_ became a _what if_ , the road back remains. She can always reconsider.

"It will be all right," he says.

And he sounds so sure of it that for the span of the moment it takes her to fall asleep, she believes him.

It's the little things, once again, that make a difference.

The tiny socks she knits out of ruby red yarn during a particularly emotional morning. They make some sort of difference. They really do.

"Do you like them?" she asks the timid halla, dangling the socks inches from his snout.

Pretty remains just out of reach, but she has sugar cubes and seeds so he doesn't want to leave either. He just kind of snorts in her general direction.

"You're right," she says. "This is stupid."

She leaves the socks outside—unable to bring herself to conjure even the slightest of flames to devour this momentary folly—and Solas finds them

He has a lopsided smile that makes him look both older and younger at the same time.

"Socks, but no name?" he muses. "Priorities," he chides.

He looks so happy, so at ease; it suits him, it suits him so much, this simple familiarity. He wears it better than the armor and mask of Fen'Harel.

"Shut up," she tells him, but he still smiles.

He thinks they can still salvage something from this beautiful but destroyed world. He doesn't want to be the person he was before—and she is glad but it's too late. Why wasn't she enough before?

"Would you have been this happy before?" she asks.

He holds the socks between thumb and forefinger, still grinning. "Of course," he says, somewhat absentminded.

"But you wouldn't have stayed," she says.

His grin withers and she knows her words to be true.

It's not right that it took him ruining the world twice over to realize it needed no mending.

What's the point. What's the fucking point of them playing house now that nothing is right?

She begins turning away, sick to the stomach but for an entirely different reason, when he grabs her. Arms sneak around her waist. Lips find her temple.

So they just stay like that and eventually she stops trying to elbow him in the ribs.

She likes it better this way. This silence—these moments he doesn't try to fill with idle chatter.

She wishes he would stop saying that it will be all right. What? What exactly will be?

But she loves him like this. Smiling like he never did before even though, at times, he still wakes up gasping from nightmares. And she loves how whenever he comes back he tilts her head back without breathing a word of greeting before undoing the ties and laces of her clothes.

But they don't talk of the child—he tries and she shuts him out every time, always—and they don't broach the subject of his occasional outings with Abelas.

Not even when he climbs into bed beside her one night and whispers, lips quivering against the shell of her ear, "I watched a man die of old age today."

Another misfortune.

It doesn't mean much to her, but he is still so very new to a world where years are counted.

Perhaps it's petty of her, but she makes no attempt to comfort him. He pulls the shoulder of her nightgown down and she arches back against him.

However, she can't chase the look of solemn contemplation which hardens his features a little more each day. No matter how many times she rises to suck his bottom lip between hers; or push him to the plush grass and grind her hips against his until he's clawing at her breeches; not even when she's the one, for a change, to extend the invitation to read by the hearth.

So she hits him. Hard. Right across the face. There is an angry red mark on his cheek and he stares at her with wide eyes.

"Whatever you're doing, stop it," she says. Her hand is still balled into a fist and she is ready to mark his jaw with a bruise next.

"This is for you," he says, though barely any sound escapes his lips. He breathes more than he speaks. "For you both."

"No," she says, and this time she can't help it, the edges of her vision go red. "Everything you do is for you."

He tries putting his palm over her belly—she pretends the slight bump isn't there, because right now, in this singular instant, it shouldn't be—but she walks away before he can touch her.

Abelas stops coming for him after that.

And she thinks she is happy. Just a little. Not a lot.

A tiny bit.

He tells her he has something for her that will make her happy. His hands tremble.

She expects some sort of display. Another horrible confession. But it's not. It is a face from the past—a beaten, bloody face but one which breathes.

"My men found her in the forest," he says, lowering the girl so she is on both of their laps.

She tries not to think too much about this sudden admission. That he still has men. Still. After everything.

It doesn't matter just now.

She can't really breathe. She wants to cry.

"Sera," she murmurs.

"I will heal her," Solas promises.

He does. He tends to her wounds and re-wraps her bandages when magic simply isn't enough. And she sits by her side until her eyes grow heavy with sleep. Because if Sera is alive then others might be as well.

She could have imagined Cassandra's lifeless body. She could have been breathing.

Maybe Dorian didn't bleed out.

This means so much.

It takes days until she finally opens her eyes and some more after that before she can stand to look at her.

Sera was never a close friend, but right now she is the embodiment of possibilities.

Ellana tries to smile.

"What the fuck is this?" Sera says.

"Oh," she murmurs, "it's nothing."

She gathers the little red socks and the equally red hat. A veritable collection of conflicted thoughts. Where she said no, her fingers said yes. Last, she reaches for the yarn doll of Pretty, complete with bright beads for eyes.

"It is nothing," Ellana repeats, hiding it all under the bed.

Something snaps within Sera.

She looks around. She glares. She throws off the blanket Solas brought to keep her warm because she lost so much blood and flings it across the room.

"Please, sit down," Ellana implores.

She rises. Tries to push her back down by the shoulders, but she's not what she used to be.

"You two are disgusting," the girl snarls. "Y'think you can just play happy house after the world's gone to shite? Your spell killed them. Everyone. What the fuck is wrong with you? You promised to stop him, you promised." And then she spits at her feet.

There are tears in her eyes, but she is still so strong.

It takes but one careless shove. Sera grunts. She's barely paying any attention as she seizes her by the dangling end of her braid and yanks.

"Get the fuck outta my sight," she growls.

No need to ask twice.

Ellana stumbles, unbalanced. The throbbing pain in her skull is agony—and she realizes she's lost her footing and the back of her head has collided with the sharp end of a shelf.

Then, she just falls over.

And consciousness is a colorful flip book. Images of Sera leaving. A vague memory of her slamming the door shut so hard the old wood whines.

At least she is alive, she thinks, at least she still lives.

But that evening a radiating pain shoots up her spine and she can't sleep very well.

"Please drink this," Solas entreats, pressing a mug of herbal tea to her lips.

It tastes like ash. He kisses her forehead and brushes hair out of her face.

She curls on her side and tries to sleep.

But in the morning the pain is unbearable and there is blood on her thighs, on the sheets, on the covers. She starts gasping, but can't quite hear it. She doesn't hear anything. Feels even less. Touch barely registers and she is just so very numb.

The tiny red socks peek out from under the bed and she starts crying.

For the first time.

Solas still has a bit of blood on his sleeves from when he helped her up. His face is so white. He makes her sit and he wraps her in a blanket. He makes her drink some more of that herbal tea, but remains so awfully quiet.

"Sera," he says.

Her hand shoots out to grip his wrist.

"Please," she says, "please don't."

She remembers what he did to the mages who bound the spirit of Wisdom and such dread fills her that she tastes bile.

They don't deserve normalcy. Sera is right.

(But she still wants to weep so very much.)

Solas fiddles with the yarn toy halla and she knows he's waiting for her to fall asleep.


	5. Red Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He grieves quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ties in with Chapter 4. A continuation.  
> (Because apparently I love that painful world too much.)

Solas is quiet and she fears.

It is nothing at first. Merely routine. As if nothing ever happened. In a way, nothing did happen. Just some blood, just some silly hopes.

No. Not hopes. She didn't hope for this. She didn't _want_ this.

It's not a litany and not a chant. Only an affirmation. This is how they were always meant to be.

She burns all the stupid shirts, the ridiculous hats, the socks so tiny they'd fit a doll. The yarn toy hall she gives to the flames last. Like a sacrificial offering. Red thread comes undone and the beads acting for eyes melt.

Her hands tremble then and she finally averts her gaze. Solas can't look either.

It's the toy that breaks him. The stupid, stupid toy that flames devour to a crisp. The little tail is the last to go, but it meets its end as well. Halla have cropped tails; this one is too long. She is an idiot. It wouldn't have served anyway—why promote inaccuracy?

She tells Solas as much as he hovers near the hearth. His nervous energy is unnerving.  She thinks he might thrust his hand right into the dying embers any minute now to shuffle around for remnants of—anything, really.

His head snaps. A joint pops in his neck as he stares at her.

"What," he says, "what did you say?"

"Halla have cropped tails," she says. "That one was too long."

He frowns at her. "Why does it matter? It would have still been perfect."

"And loved," he adds, suddenly gripping the fire iron and using it to poke at a log.

He pushes it away from the last of the red thread. As if that can save it.

As if it even matters.

 

The need to console him is a ravaging beast. She fears when he is quiet and she fears when he is gone.

"It is not your fault," she says.

She breathes love against his throat. She traces faded scars and tense muscles and tries soothing hurts that dwell so deep beneath his skin that no salve can assuage him.

She wants him not to frown.

She needs him not to frown.

She fears.

"I know," he says.

And suddenly she doesn't mind the frown so very much. The certitude in his voice is much worse.

He sought retribution after Mythal's death and vengeance following's Wisdom's passing.

She touches him until he forgets about the world outside their house. If only for this minute. She can weave eternity out of a sprinkling of seconds. They have time now and he needs but to stay. Where she can see him. Where she can still his hand.

He looks at her with curiosity and sighs.

She drinks that sigh. She draws the breath straight from his lungs. She touches and kisses and caresses. She speaks nonsense in his ear and hopes it is confusing.

She has him on his back, hips grinding sinuously against his as he looks upon her with wonder. And she works his trousers down when he pretends to read a book. The ink comes off in flakes from age. It is on his fingertips and then it is on her cheeks after she draws away, having pressed a salty kiss to his thigh before planting its twin upon his lips.

"We are out of red yarn," he tells her, pensive, during an early morning.

His clever fingers work her hair through loops and spirals. It is beautiful, what he creates with adept movements and a handful of memories, but at this point she'd let him make a beehive out of her head if it'll calm him.

She doesn't know how long she can distract him with gentle embraces and leisurely mornings spent in bed. He talks so little. She can't even get him to read aloud to her.

"We don't need red yarn," she says, catching his fingers and squeezing.

She feels a spasm. A contraction of muscles. That one ragged breath, like some kind of silent admission of betrayal, makes the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand up.

He says nothing.

And she fears.

 

It happens and it is an accident.

He finds Sera. He happens upon her. It's a cruel twist of fate and, perhaps in the words of a bard, poetically just.

It is Abelas of all people who puts a halt to it. She doesn't know what they were doing, doesn't want to know. All she knows is that she hates that both have donned their armor and told her nothing of it.

She is always in the dark, always.

But not now. Not entirely. Abelas comes to her. His hair is a wild tangle and he is clumsy as he assists her atop his hart.

He dislikes bloodshed.

He hates this restored world.

She thinks they are too late—and then she is certain that they must be because Solas has his hand in Sera's short hair, fingers catching on knots. He uses the leverage to crash her skull against the leaning pillar of some ancient temple. It's overrun with vines that now greedily gulp down the blood smears as the girl slides down, her legs folding beneath her in a nearly artistic way. Performers faint like this. But no one is performing.

She thinks he will bash her head in with his bare hands.

Or perhaps he'll hack it off with his staff blade. He only ever uses the damned thing as a walking stick, but now he holds it at an angle. As if ready to slice. Or hit. Or bash.

Abelas steps in front of him and she grips his forearm.

His eyes are so wide, so glassy. It takes him a moment to understand that she's really here. Focus is slow to return.

"Don't," she says. She wants to order him. She wants to scream.

He is being a monster all over again.

(But a part of her wants to hit Sera too. Again and again and again.)

She shakes her head. She feels sick. It's a hideous thought; she isn't good but she isn't horrible. She can't be thinking that.

Solas tilts his head. "She killed our child," he says.

His tone is so even. His voice so quiet. It barely rises above the rustling of the wind.

"I tripped," she says.

"She pushed you," he says. "She watched you bleed."

His gaze shifts inward. He isn't really listening anymore. Abelas has to shove him for clarity to rush back into him.

"It doesn't matter," she says. She digs her nails into his wrist until they bend, until it hurts and there are crescent marks upon his skin.

"How can it not?" he says, severe.

"I never wanted your child anyway," she says.

She lies. She tells the truth. She lies. She sputters and mumbles and—it's a lie—a half-truth—a half-lie—half-lies do not exist—

He mind reels.

She doesn't know herself anymore.

She wants to hurt Sera.

She wants to hit Solas.

She wants to cry.

Anything to destabilize him. He has to step back. He has to leave. They have to return to their little house and do nothing while waiting for years to pass.

He looks like he's going to claw his heart out. He drops his staff and rakes his nails across his throat before turning on his heels. He staggers, nearly falls.

He doesn't look back.

Abelas lends her his hart. He chooses to stay behind with Sera.

It's good to know that one of them has retained their humanity.

 

Solas does not return for several days and she nearly tears out chunks of her hair from worry.

When he does come home, it's the middle of the night and he climbs into bed with her without word. He gathers her in his arms and breathes.

His hands are too cold. She thinks there might be frost on his cheek when he presses it to her shoulder—but that would be silly.

"I've sat idle for too long," he murmurs.

"You've done enough," she says.

She doesn't understand him and won't chase answers. She wants him idle and bored, playing the odd healer to the occasional passerby. The world has known enough of him.

"We start again," he says. "It is as simple as that. We rebuild."

She tries to turn. Those words are ice; they are blades and needles and swords. She wants to steal them from his lips and silence them for good.

This is where he belongs. With her. Away from all those he harmed time and again with his good intentions.

She squirms and he holds on too tight. He kisses the tip of her ear and embraces her much, much too strongly.

"Stay," he entreats.

She thinks she wouldn't be able to pry his fingers off with a wrecking bar.

Dread coils in her belly until it is as chilled as his hands.

She shouldn't have hardened him with unkind lies.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, find me dwelling on [tumblr.](http://emmg.tumblr.com/) Teehee.


End file.
